I nod, offering nothing but a feeble wave in goodbye.
But when I’m alone in my house again, and I sit back down with my coffee and this bagel that really did help—I glance down at my feet, trying to imagine all the pieces of me that sit there, and I do think about it.
The too-muchness of Ren Jacobs. A girl who, once upon a time, loved laughter and loved silliness and loved irreverence before she became nothing at all.
I think about Miller Colson-Burke and his help all day.
Miller
My inability to field a single ground ball effectively in our last two series cost me.
Not just in the race to whatever records Yas was talking about I didn’t realize I was participating in, but in practice.
Pascale was waiting for me outside the locker room when I got to the stadium, and he wasn’t alone. Vai, the team’s strength and conditioning coach, stood beside him with a flat smile on her face that told me all I needed to know about how I’d be spending the afternoon.
Who cares that spring training is long over?
Two hours of agility and footwork.
I wasn’t fast enough last week, according to her.
She’s right. But who cares that I still hold the record for the quickest thirty-yard dash in the combine and no one’s ever even come close?
Lateral shuffle drills. Cone weaves. Speed ladders. Crossover steps.
One hour of fielding drills.
Doesn’t matter that I’ve got the strongest arms in the league and the best range.
Didn’t last week.
Vai finally claps her hands, throwing a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the benches. “Take a break. Hydrate. We’ll wrap up with some ball drops and hand drills.”
Lifting two fingers in a salute—she’s already looking back at her clipboard, probably drawing up new ways to torture me with inappropriately timed training—I heave a breath and jog towards the bench where I abandoned my phone and water.
It’s just us on the turf.
Everyone else is doing what they’re supposed to be doing at this point in the season: lifting, maintenance, and workouts that don’t kill your muscles and risk exhausting your reserves for a game.
I check my phone first, more out of habit than anything, and maybe, a bit of hope that there’s going to be a text from Ren, telling me she’s changed her mind.
It’s funny—going from being interested in nothing to being so interested in this woman who really, really is something. Even if she doesn’t seem to think so.
There’s a text from Yas, with a photo underneath.
Not quite a photo posing with a dinosaur bone, but it’ll do.
The photo in question—Ren, smiling quietly from behind a glass of champagne, and me, standing there, grinning down at her, my own drink held loosely by my tattooed hand.
No sign of Scott fucking Saunders and his stupid shoes.
Another text from my aunt and uncle, and even though it’s not spelled out on the screen, I can feel the desperation in the words.
We saw the photos from the gala. You looked great in your tux! Is it new?
You might not remember, but we gave you and Matty matching dinosaur pajamas your first Christmas with us!
I remember. It’s one of those things—core memories or whatever—that’s burned into my brain. It’s not the type of thing you forget, no matter the fact that it happened when you were seven years old.
